#some garak having a Time of things to celebrate the last of this year's presentations being done!! im email only now till the new year!

[searchingforserendipity25]

garak fades into obscurity. a shed and a garden that feeds half the neighborhood.

door open, always, less in welcome than to stop the walls from closing in - but people come inside, too.

-

the hungry, generally. other gardeners, come to pick up shovels and seeds. some of them can't stand to look him in the eye, some of them stagger blind to the world, caught in memory and half-blind to the world.

orphans, widows. old victims with old grievances, sometimes. we are the new cardassia, growing from the dust, glimmer the propaganda-screens in the squares. united we build. some people even believe it.

there is nothing else to believe in. they eat together, the neighbors of tain's old district, and share old stories: poetry and theater, cruel orders, disappearances.

people come to the slantwise shadow of the small room, with its rich smells, the piles of good soil and samples of tubers bred to grow on the radioactive soil. they come to find good work, they come to find answers.

my brother, they say. my daughter, my lover, what did you do to them? the last parmak, asking for their cousin kelas. the last - oh, cardassia is full of them, made up of them, their last-names, long generations turned to a remnant. he is only to blame for some of it; but to be a culprit in any part of cardassia's diminished is worse than any other sin.

he gives them red bush tea, coordinates for secret labor camps and torture chambers, answers. true answers all, especially the lies. no one murders him, not even in the dark of a dust storm. united we build, join together for the future. they take the food from his garden and go.

when, three years after the end of the war, the notice comes for a public trial, he packs a bag with old tailor's scissors and makes ready.

because this is the new cardassia, there is no execution. because this is cardassia, punishment is precise, measured, and symmetrical. beautiful, for a mind inclined to find such things beautiful.

we are the new cardassia, growing from the dust, and we seek to build from the ground up on good foundations, castellan ghemor says.

'but of course,' elim garak says. he does not look like a torturer, in his gardener's apron and working braid, dust and soil beneath the nails of his expressive hands; but then, torturers rarely do. 'there is no place for old rot, i tell my apprentices so every time. i am gratified to be exiled, if the court allows it to be a benefit to cardassia.'

this is the new cardassia: most trials are not recorded and projected on town squares, but some are. why not give a last decent show?

people need examples to follow, the guilty most of all; even professor lang had agreed, when he first proposed the idea, though she hadn't much liked it at first. tain's son regretful in shackles is a fine fiction, the better still for being true

he leaves the shed door open, instructions on how to continue cultivating the hardiest crops, and a small pot on her desk. small tight buds nearly ready for flowering, the first edosian orchids of new cardassia.

and then? and then to the stars again, a handful of sickly soil sewn into a secret pocket, scissors in another.

there is a small hole in a floating husk of steel waiting, a shop no one ever leased again, the front windows drawn closed by curtains like a theater house waiting for the new season's farces to start.

if that is peculiar bad luck for the bustling promenade, it might just be that the head of the infirmary across the hall didn't much like the notion of new neighbors changing his usual sights.

sentiment, rank sentiment. on new cardassia, amidst the wreckage, some have started to sing poems to it, to sing it without fear.

half-blind with memory, it is difficult to return, a blinding strangeness that dilates time for the first weeks. there is food on the table and company with it, there is someone in the landing bay, there are patterns to cut and lines to wind and unwind, match together.

kira's voice is distinctive and so is the ringing of her steps, bashir leans his cheek against his fist when he's tired and at ease, quark pours drinks with the same habitual flair.

in uncertain times, it is good that some things remain, cleave together, persist. one day he looks across the lunch table, and is even fairly certain of when to place himself. his secret pocket weighting him down, bad soil but enough to feed on.

-

bolts of fabric gathering dust, a bother to wash and terribly out of fashion - but fashion does tend to come around, cyclical as the desert winds.

he will find a use for those old scraps, garak of garak's clothiers. men like him always do.

[aurora-nova-fic]

Deleted Scenes: Bittersweet Symphonies

I doubt I’ll be on this much all the time, but I realized this is a great way to share some deleted scenes from Bittersweet Symphonies, the conclusion to my Private Universe series. This series grabbed me and wouldn’t let go for 106k words. I adore the series, even though I now associate one of my favorite writing songs so strongly with Chapter 2 of Bittersweet Symphonies that I struggle to write anything else to it.

So, for my “yay I’m on tumblr” celebration, I present some of the scenes which didn’t make the final edit.

First up, this was originally written as the second-to-last Private Universe Snapshot:

The Interrogation

Garak left the basement to get food and was promptly accosted by Mila. “Tell me about him,” she said.

“Damar is Cardassia’s best chance, notwithstanding his past sins.” Garak would never forgive him for killing Ziyal, but he understood Damar had done so out of his sense of duty to the state. Presently, he saw no point in dredging up the past when they had a future to secure. He also knew that was unlikely to be what Mila meant, but a man could hope.

“Don’t play ignorant with me. You know perfectly well I’m not asking about Damar, and yes, I have a dampening field on. This is a private conversation.”

Really, one would have thought she’d realize now was not the time to pry into his personal affairs. The glare she fixed on him clearly conveyed otherwise. Garak had learned how to break people with his eyes from her, after all.

He gave in to the inevitable. “Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space Nine.”

“Human?” She wasn’t disgusted, merely curious.

Garak nodded.

“I’m waiting for details, Elim. I have been for years, so your dinner can wait a few more minutes.”

“It’s not my dinner I’m worried about,” he said. There was the rebellion to consider, foremost, and of course his ongoing quest to not be killed by the Dominion.

“You learned to control the malon anbar, I trust.”

Garak did not appreciate her saying the words aloud, dampening field or not. “Perfectly. And since you’re apparently willing to hold up our activities against the Dominion to satisfy your curiosity…”

“There are no activities to hold up, at the moment.”

“I was hoping to change that, but instead I’m being interrogated about my personal life.”

“I take my opportunities where I can get them.”

“Very well. If you must know, he is an exhilarating conversationalist.”

“That goes without saying, if he held your interest for any length of time.”

“He is in equal measure delightful and impossible. Would you believe he finds The Never Ending Sacrifice dull?”

Mila appeared to believe it. “I’ve always found it overrated myself. I think I like this man, Elim. Keep going.”

Garak hadn’t known she held this shocking opinion. “How can you possibly think it’s overrated?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, but you have to admit it’s predictable.”

Aghast, Garak could only wonder from where he had gotten his refined taste in literature. Tain never had time for fiction, and now Mila didn’t appreciate The Never Ending Sacrifice. Appalling. “Presuming we survive, I’ll have to give you Shakespeare. Perhaps it will be more to your liking.”

“You’re stalling again.”

Garak grew weary of her insistence. “He is so generous it can hardly be believed. He is clever and mesmerizing and from a race which glorifies tales of people from separate worlds who overcome all obstacles to be together, but I am a realist, so I know better. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a rebellion leader to motivate.” He spun around, deciding he wasn’t hungry after all.

“Elim.”

He paused and looked over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he said, and went back down to the basement. If they didn’t defeat the Dominion, nothing else would matter anyway.

Why I cut it: I decided three snapshots in a row on the “they belong to different worlds” theme was a bit much, for one thing. I was also unsure if Garak was quite in character enough, though I was going for him being more open with his mother than he would be with anyone else. This was briefly the prologue for Bittersweet Symphonies, but I liked revisiting the Arwen & Aragorn bit from A Chasm in Perspective much better. Some of the dialogue made it into Garak’s flashback in the wedding scene.

Next up, a short bit from the subspace conversation where Julian tells Miles he’s an Augment.

“I hadn’t known it was possible to intimidate my father into silence. Garak is very impressive when he���s in full protective mode.” That he was protecting Julian had charmed his mother even more than it irritated his father.

“Scary as hell, is more like it. He stares at you like he’s thinking of twenty different ways to kill you and dispose of your body.”

This sounds like it’s coming from personal experience. “Something you’d like to share, Miles?”

“You remember right after your parents left, I thought I’d tease you by calling you Jules?”

“That was my name before,” Julian explains quietly. “I couldn’t tell you why it bothers me so much.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“But Garak did, and it answers a mystery.”

“What mystery?” asks Julian.

“He came to our quarters and told me I was never to call you Jules again. There was no ‘or else.’ There didn’t need to be. Twenty might be too low an estimate.”

Julian is touched to learn about this unexpected display of concern. “I didn’t know he’d done that.”

“He ‘suggested’ it would be better if you didn’t. I wasn’t about to argue. Anyway, that’s when I knew he really does care about you.”

Why I cut it: Too out of character for Garak.

Here we have a little bit from the beginning of the ka’tur-routzx, the blade ritual.

Garak removes the knife he keeps strapped to his ankle and throws it Julian’s way. The toss is an easy one, spinning lazily through the air, though judging by Dax’s gasp the whole situation looks very bad from a Federation perspective. Julian grabs the hilt of the knife as it tumbles over end toward him. He can manage harder catches – the enhanced hand-eye coordination is useful – but isn’t likely to appreciate an ostentatious display of his abilities. Garak is still working on that.

“You throw knives when you love the person you just married?” O’Brien asks, incredulous.

“That’s not the ritual, it’s Elim showing off the hard work he put into my self-defense lessons.”

Julian finally agreed to the instruction after Interment Camp 371. Starfleet Medical sends its doctors out into the galaxy woefully untrained to face attackers, and Garak has long held a deep interest in keeping Julian alive. Besides, the augmentations did him little to no good when he didn’t know how to best use them to his advantage.

“I hope you practiced in the holosuites first,” says Dax.  

“Fake knife, actually,” says Julian as he stands. “Are we going to perform parlor tricks, or are we going to do this?”

Oh, he is glorious. The remark is just forward and inviting enough for the situation without being too blatantly seductive in front of their guests. Garak couldn’t have come up with better himself.

Why I cut it: This one was a real kill your darlings moment, because I love, love “Are we going to perform parlor tricks, or are we going to do this?” But the scene served the line, not the other way around, and I think the final product flows better without this part.

Here’s a bit from Ezri’s POV as she and Kira leave Cardassia after the wedding.

“You and Garak really came to an understanding, didn’t you?” asks Ezri while she starts the runabout’s preflight.

“Yes,” says Nerys. “He’s done terrible things, things I could never condone. But he did them for Cardassia.”

Ezri doesn’t know why that makes Garak’s misdeeds acceptable until Nerys adds quietly, “I’ve done terrible things for Bajor.”

That… actually explains a lot.

In any event, while Ezri could never marry someone like Garak, she appreciates what Julian has with him. “They’re happy,” she says. “I’m glad something good has come of Julian leaving Starfleet. I really think he’s going to be okay. And you know, I don’t think Garak is worried about me anymore.”

“Worried?”

Ezri weighs how much she can say. “Keeping Jadzia’s secrets.”

“So she did know about the two of them.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I figured,” says Nerys. “It seemed like the kind of thing Julian would have told her.”

He had, of course, and then he and Garak developed the private universe and Jadzia was utterly fascinated by the scientific implications. When she was dying, she thought mostly about the people she was leaving behind and the child she’d never have, but she had briefly regretted that she’d never unravel the mysteries of the malon anbar. It was the only science project she thought about, at least before Julian had to remove Dax.

Ezri shakes her head. “Sorry. Memories.” She doesn’t get lost in them very often now, but it does happen, and they’re usually Jadzia’s. “Jadzia was protective of Julian’s relationship with Garak. She thought it was good for him, but she knew most people wouldn’t approve.”

“I wouldn’t have,” agrees Nerys.

Why I cut it: It didn’t fit or add much on its own, and I quickly abandoned the chapter it was going to be part of (which involved Kira collapsing and needing treatment, Julian performing another medical feat, and Garak fretting Starfleet would realize what a good doctor they’d let get away and offer Julian his commission back).

And finally, part of the epilogue which got the axe:

There’s a crate in the middle of their living room. “Is that from Mother?”

“Yes. She seems very concerned about you,” says Elim. “And after I wrote her a respectful letter promising not to let you starve, no less.”

In Cardassian terms, his mother’s habit of sending food expresses deep concern over Elim’s ability to keep him fed. “You know it’s not an insult by human standards, and I may have mentioned that you liked the marmalade she sent two care packages ago.”

Elim’s sweet tooth wins out. “I suppose there are worse problems than a spouse-mother looking to add variety to our diet,” he says, trying for more grudging than he actually manages.

The tentative rapprochement between Julian and his mother, begun on the station before the war intervened and he only rarely remembered to tell her he was still alive, is growing less tenuous. Part of this, he suspects, is that he’s no longer hiding in shame. The rest is due to her unconditional acceptance of everything: choosing to reveal his augmentations, moving to Cardassia, marrying Elim. She’s undemanding and supportive from a distance of light-years, and for the first time since he was a teenager, Julian is willing to give her a role in his life. He’s gotten in the habit of writing monthly.

They don’t speak of Father. As far as Julian is concerned, there’s no paternal relationship left to repair. Not in years, really, but the last straw was the letter he’d received after his wedding expressing Richard Bashir’s selfishness over Julian saving Kira’s life: Your mother and I could go to prison, did you even stop to think about that? As though it’s Julian’s job to protect his parents from the consequences of their actions.

The return address on the care package is Aunt Aya’s for the second box in a row. Mother has been visiting her sister for quite some time now, but Julian isn’t about to pry for details. He opens the box and sure enough, finds three jars of marmalade. Underneath them is his real prize. “Here it is. She said she was sending something to celebrate getting my license, and it arrived just in time.”

“What is that?”

“Her homemade lamb stew. She canned it for us.”

Elim is more interested in the marmalade, but he’s not about to refuse a break from ration bars.

They are better off than many people on Cardassia. Miles, Ezri, and Kira are evidently on a joint mission to ensure Julian, and by extension Elim, escape the worst of the current deprivations.

Why I cut it: This tried to cram way too much into the epilogue. If you’ve read The Tune Without the Words, you’ll see some ideas morphed into that piece.

Well, this is long and, now that I think about it, more than a bit self-indulgent, but blogs are self-indulgent by their very nature, so here it is, internet. ;)

[nonbinaryezrabridger]

a lovely little garden

My first fic for star trek secret santa! The prompt was garashir from @lisjjabe. @startreksecretsanta

Rating: T. Words: 1883. ao3 link

“My dear doctor, Cardassia is no place for a wedding.”

“Elim, this is our home now.”

“I’m certainly not here because I enjoy it, Doctor. I’m here because I, unfortunately, feel a sense of duty to my people. If we’re going to get married, please, let us do it anywhere but here. Even that metal monstrosity you call deep space nine would be better than here.”

Julian laughs, runs a comforting hand over Garak’s wrist. Garak leans into the touch, drawing strength from the gentle brush of his lover’s fingers over his scales. Julian pulls away after a minute and picks his padd off the console he’d left it on, sauntering out the door. He yells over his shoulder as he leaves:

“I’ll find us somewhere beautiful, dear.”

Once again left alone with his dreadfully boring work, Garak closes his eyes and breaths in the hot, dry air of his home planet. As much as he enjoys not being cold all the time, Cardassia holds nothing for him but reminders of how far his people have fallen. Even worse, he can’t escape the simple fact even before the Dominion war, his people were terrible, hateful warmongers.

Some would say he’d been corrupted by the federation, and Garak would firmly but politely disagree. And then he’d punch them in the face.

He’s gotten less diplomatic with age.

------

When Julian first suggests a lovely little garden on Bajor, Garak thinks it’s a joke and laughs heartily. It’s only the hurt in his doctor’s eyes that tips him off to the fact that it’s a real suggestion. His mind is a whirlwind of apologies, but all he manages to say is an incredulous question:

“Bajor? With a Cardassian husband?”

Julian’s face softens, the hurt easing as he understands.

“Elim, Bajor’s wounds have healed enough for us to visit. And this venue is very private, it’s in the middle of nowhere.”

Elim nods weakly, but his scales are still curling with distress. Julan brushes a soothing hand over his ridges and pulls up images of the venue. It is beautiful, with flower covered walkways and delicate crystal chandeliers hanging inside the buildings.

Elim still isn’t sure it’s a good idea, but Julian loves it, so he says yes. Julian claps happily and presses a kiss to Elim’s cheek. Elim sends him off to pick centerpieces for the tables and goes to message Kira, just to make sure it’s actually okay. Julian hasn’t been on Bajor for months, while Kira will know the current climate well enough to advise him. She assures him that it will be fine and he resigns himself to worrying silently about it until they’ve actually set foot on Bajor.

--------

Julian had given Elim complete control over the outfits for the wedding. He’s a little nervous about it, but Elim was upset about the venue and fashion is so important to him...but please don’t be polka dots. Polka dots were in season last year and no matter how much Julian complained, Elim put them in all his creations.

Julian arrives at Elim’s workshop and knocks on the doorframe, not wanting to barge in an accidentally ruin the surprise. Elim shouts from inside:

“Come in!”

Julian steps inside, bracing himself to see some very fashionable but still hideously ugly creation.

Instead, a pair of beautifully simple tuxes hang on the rack. One is black, with delicate blue embroidery on the cuffs, and the other is white with purple embroidery. The black is obviously fitted to Julian and the white to Garak. They’re perfect, and not at all what Julian was expecting.

“Elim, They’re amazing!”

Elim smiles proudly and runs his hand over the white suit sleeve.

“I went with traditional human bases, in the human wedding colors, but the embroidery is cardassian. It’s the list of our family lines as far back as I could find. I don’t want much of my culture in our wedding, but that part is essential.”

Julian looks closer at the tiny Cardassian text. The needle work must have taken ages. Then he throws himself at his fiancee and hugs him as tightly as he can.

“I can’t wait to wear them!”

Elim wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his neck, blushing at the praise.

-----

They both agree not to invite their families to the wedding without discussing it. However, that leaves them both without someone to walk them down the aisle. Julian puts off asking Kira; he’s sure she’ll refuse him. When he finally works up the courage to ask her, she agrees enthusiastically. Elim endures Ezri’s lecture on taking care of himself even when she’s not there to force him in order to ask her. She’s just excited as Kira and Garak hopes he doesn’t regret his choice. Through no fault of her own, the trill can be quite overwhelming at times.

They carefully write up invitations. While Julian helps Miles secure time off to come t the wedding, Elim takes a trip to the deserts of the Cardassian equator in order to invite Ziyal. She gladly leaves her art studio in order to join them. She stays with them in the guest room of their apartment until they leave for Bajor.

Soon enough, it’s time to travel to Bajor and prepare the venue. Ziyal begs to be in charge of the decorations and they eagerly say yes, glad to have one thing on their giant list taken off. She dances through the small building, making sure all the crystal glimmers to her satisfaction and all the flowers match. Julian shakes his head at her fondly and checks over the menu one last time.

Elim lets the sunlight spill over his scales and just tries to let it sink in that this is actually happening. He’s about to have a beautiful wedding, on Bajor of all places, to his beautiful fiancee, who happens to be a starfleet officer and a human. He had never expected this to become his life, but he’s glad it has.

He’s surrounded by people who love him and that’s the most he could possibly hope for. As he watches Ziyal and Julian rush around the bright room, covered in flowers and jewels, he realizes how truly happy he is. The affection swells inside him and he rushes to Julian’s side, pulling him into an embrace and waltzing around the room.

Ziyal giggles behind them and Julian laughs too, surprised and breathless. He’s still holding a spray of flowers in one hand and he’s practically glowing in the soft sunlight. Elim feels overwhelmed by it all; Julian’s beauty, their upcoming wedding, how strongly he loves this man. He twirls Julian one last time and breaks away with a bow, making space for him to catch his breath.

------

Julian’s head spins as he walks down the aisle and he’s glad for Kira’s steadying arm linked with his. The bright red of her Bajoran uniform blazes against the black of his own suit and focuses on that contrast, using it to calm himself. All eyes are on him as Kira walks him down the aisle, Ziyal showering the path with soft pink rose petals. She’s in love with the title of flower girl, and takes her job very seriously.

They make it to the altar and Julian smiles at Miles and Keiko, who are sitting in the front row. Molly and Kirayoshi stand in front of their parents, ready to ring the rings up. Julian steps up to take his place, careful not to step on the flowing robes of the Kai who Kira had convinced to officiate the wedding. He tries not to look at the crowd watching him; his collar feels tight enough already.

Then Elim steps into the aisle, Ezri’s small frame hanging onto his larger one. Suddenly, Julian can’t feel the crowd’s eyes on him at all. All his senses are trained on his fiancee, and everything else fades away.

Elim looks amazing. He’s tailored the suit to be properly tight, and the crisp white blazes against his grey skin. He’s tinted his lips and his forehead indent purple to match the embroidery on his sleeves. Julian rarely gets to see him like this; the painted indent is still considered feminine, and Cardassians disapprove of men looking anything but warrior-like.

Elim begins his walk down the aisle, Ziyal giving him a shower in petals as well. Julian feels like he’s overheating despite the pleasant breeze flowing throughout the open air building. Elim gets closer and closer and he only becomes more overwhelming. He’s so beautiful and graceful, he hardly seems real. If the Kai told Julian he was a prophet made flesh, Julian would believe her wholeheartedly.

The vows pass in a blur. His head is too full of love for him to process anything other than how Elim’s eyes shine or his lips curl up in a smile. Julian is a zombie until the Kai says something short and then Elim is kissing him. Julian kisses back and then his hearing rushes back, bringing the roar of the crowd with it.

Julian is filled with his love and the building is filled with the crowd’s celebration and everything is perfect.

------

They stumble into their small apartment, exhausted from the after party. Julian lets the mound of presents and leftovers in his arms fall onto the table in the entryway and collapses on the couch. Elim follows him and they rest for a moment in silence.

“Thank you for dancing with me, Elim. I know music doesn’t do much for you.”

Garak chuckles and runs inhumanly warm fingers over Julian’s neck. He leans into the touch, smiling up at his husband.

“It’s not your fault my species has weak hearing, dearest. Simply being near you is enough for me, even if I can’t appreciate the music being played.”

Julian laughs and looks at the container Garak’s abandoned in the entryway, stuffed full of cake. He jokingly scolds:

“I see you enjoyed the wedding cake though. Did you even leave any for the guests?”

Garak huffs, a low rattling undertone vibrating in his chest. Julian presses a hand to his skin to feel it as well as hear it. It’s a happy noise, one that Cardassians rarely make. Julian has gotten good at coaxing the purr out off him, but he never gets tired of hearing it.

“It’s our wedding cake, and we payed for it. I think I should have as much as I want.”

Julian swings his legs up onto the couch and over Garak’s lap. Garak quickly wraps an arm over his knees, holding him close. Julian rests his head on the armrest and sinks into the couch, perfectly comfortable.

“Now that you’ve brought it home, I’m sure we’ll be eating it for weeks.”

Julian ends the sentence with a yawn, his eyes slipping closed. It’s been a long day, and wrapped up in his husband, all he wants to do is sleep. Garak doesn’t complain about being trapped underneath his weight, instead pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Sleep well, my dear doctor.”

-------

The next morning, they stumble into the sunlit kitchen and eat wedding cake for breakfast. Garak accidently smears icing across his lips in his sleepiness, and Julian kisses the sweetness away.